


Burning Dog

by codswallop



Series: Burning Dog [1]
Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M, Malaria, Sickfic, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-23
Updated: 2012-11-23
Packaged: 2017-11-19 08:04:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/571026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/codswallop/pseuds/codswallop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Malaria,” Brad said to Bryan. “Malaria?” He was hoping he’d misheard. “This is a joke, right?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burning Dog

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-slash, rated T for language.
> 
> Thanks very much to ariadnes_string for encouragement and beta-reading.

“Malaria,” Brad said to Bryan. “Malaria?” He was hoping he’d misheard. “This is a joke, right? He can't have malaria.”

“I gotta send off his bloods to be sure, but yeah, I’m about 95 percent,” Doc said, tilting Ray’s chin up and shining a flashlight into each of his eyes in turn. Ray wasn't exactly happy about this, you could tell, but he kept quiet. "Recurring chills and nausea plus jaundice plus exposure? It’s a classic case. You should have made him come see me the first time it happened.”

He should have, Brad knew, but Bryan had been deep in the shit from the moment they’d arrived at Ad Diwaniyah. The second they were out of immediate danger, everyone fell apart, seemed like.

“He had a twenty-four hour bug. He was fine again yesterday. It can’t be malaria--we take drugs for that shit.”

“Some of us do,” Doc Bryan agreed. “Some of us palm the pills and then bury them because we don’t like the side effects.”

Brad shut his eyes briefly. “Tell me you did not do that, Corporal Person.”

Ray cut him a quick apologetic look, then hunched back down into hollow-eyed unresponsiveness, shivering morosely. Brad wanted to smack him across the back of the head. “You stupid dumbass cracker. I hope they FedEx you home. Fucking...Doc, will you let him put his shirt on or something before he shakes himself to death?”

“One sec.” Bryan was flicking a syringe the size of an elephant gun. “Chloroquine,” he explained, as he wiped off Ray’s biceps with an alcohol swab. “First few doses come in a needle so you don’t puke it up. After that you get pills.”

Brad watched Ray. A quick flinch passed over his face when the needle went in, but he didn’t react otherwise. “So you'll have to send him over to the infirmary at the barracks."

“No!” Ray came back to life. “Don’t make me go. I promise I’ll be good, I swear. It’s all diarrhea and psycho headcases over there.”

“Then you’ll fit right in,” Doc told him. “Put your shirt back on. Seems like a mild case so far,” he said to Brad, “and it’s not contagious. Infirmary beds are pretty full right now. Can your team look after him for a few days? He’ll be a good PSA for why you should remember to take your Lariam and use your goddamn mosquito spray.”

“You’re going to let Trombley take care of me?” Ray whined. “I changed my mind. Go ahead. Put me in the zoo.”

“Shut up, Person,” Brad said automatically. “Look after him how?”

“I’ll come by and check on him whenever I can. Just have someone make sure he’s drinking and that his brains don’t boil in his head. Put damp cloths on him when he heats up. You know your basic first aid, Colbert, it’s not rocket science. If he has a convulsion--”

“Oh, fuck that,” Brad said. 

“I'm going to die,” Ray decided. “Kill me now and get it over with, one of you.”

“He’ll be fine. Tell your Marines to take their fucking antimalarials from now on.”

*

“Why didn’t you take your fucking antimalarials?” Brad demanded, escorting Ray across the tank repair yard back to his bedroll.

Ray didn’t want to answer. “They give me nightmares,” he said finally.

Brad stopped in his tracks to stare at him for a minute. “That’s the pussiest thing I’ve ever heard you say. Nightmares? I’ll give you nightmares. Jesus Christ. _Malaria_. Come on.”

They went on in silence.

“I knew you were being too fucking quiet,” Brad said. 

*

“He’s not gonna puke on himself or shit himself, is he?” Trombley asked. “I ain’t cleaning up no sick-people shit.”

“I’ll s-save it just for your watch, James,” Ray said from beneath about sixteen blankets and a hoodie, his teeth still chattering. 

“How can you be cold, man?" Garza asked. "It's like a million and fifty degrees out here."

“Cleaning up shit is the definition of a Recon Marine’s job, Trombley,” said Brad. 

“Not actual _shit_ shit, though,” Trombley objected.

“Oftentimes,” Brad told him. 

“Fuck all of you,” Ray moaned. “Seriously. Can everyone please just f-f-fuck off and let me take a n-nap?”

“I should make you run laps right now,” Brad told him. “Sweat it all out of your system. If you wanted to sleep you should’ve gone to the barracks.”

He cleared out right after that, though, and went off to lift with Poke until he quit seeing red around the edges. It took a while.

*

Walt sat with him. It made sense; they were friends, and Walt had little brothers at home he’d taken care of all the time when they got sick, he said. It was probably a good thing, too, because Brad was still so pissed off at Ray he couldn’t go near him again for the rest of the day. He found busywork (moving supply boxes back to the spot they’d just finished moving them away from), went to chow (same shit different day), went to a team leaders’ meeting (complete bull, they were only marking time here, even the LT couldn’t pretend optimism anymore). Meanwhile every goddamn man in the company came over to him at some point to say some stupid variation on “Hey, Colbert, heard about your boy, how’s he holding up?”

“Still an asshole,” Brad said brightly, for the five thousandth time, feeling that smile on his face that most people knew to walk away from fast. “Always take your Lariam, men.”

*

It was dark when Brad ventured back to Ray’s bunk. Walt was asleep sitting up, and Brad shook him and sent him away to his own bedroll. “He got real hot after you left,” Walt said, yawning.

“Idiot malaria victim has a fever, news at eleven,” Brad said. “Was the doc by?”

“Uh-huh. Gave him a shot. He was pissed you weren’t here.”

“More news at eleven. All right, Hasser. Go turn in. I’m on watch now.”

“I’m awake,” Ray whispered. “Where the hell have you been?”

Brad could only see the outline of him. He’d shed the sixteen blankets at some point. He squatted down and found Ray’s forehead with the palm of his hand. “Wow,” he said.

“I know.” Ray sounded proud. “Hundred and three, Doc said. I’m tripping balls. It’d be kind of cool if it didn’t fucking hurt so much.” 

“Go to sleep, you shithead,” Brad sighed, lying down next to him on the concrete, making himself as comfortable as he could. 

“Dude, why are you being such a megadick? I didn't want to get sick. Half the guys toss their Lariam tablets. It was pure bad luck.”

“It was pure idiocy.”

Ray was quiet for a little while. “It hurts like a total bitch, if that’s any consolation.”

“Yeah, it makes my day,” Brad said. “Go to sleep.”

*

Bryan was there again when Brad woke in the gray of dawn, doing doctor stuff: thermometer, stethoscope, blood pressure cuff. Brad propped himself up on one elbow and watched him, too bone-tired to move away. Ray looked to be out cold. Fucking finally.

“How’d it go last night?” Bryan asked, glancing up for a second while he listened to Ray’s chest. 

“Bad.” It was a lot harder to go without sleep when you’d gotten used to getting it again for a few nights in a row. 

“Yeah? Not bad enough for you to come find me, though. His temp’s down for now. He’ll probably sleep all day. Make sure he drinks whenever he wakes up. Any vomiting or diarrhea?”

“He puked twice,” Brad said. “Once on me. I am never having kids, Doc. Not ever.”

“Good idea,” Doc agreed absently, feeling Ray’s abdomen. “Palpable spleen,” he said. “I goddamn knew it.” 

“What the fuck does that mean?” Brad asked. Bryan looked serious, but then he was always a humorless bastard.

“Palpable spleen, his spleen’s enlarged, I can feel it,” Doc said. “Fucking classic malaria. No hard workouts for a couple weeks, that’s all, or it could bust.”

“You sure he shouldn’t be in the infirmary?”

“He’s fine,” said Bryan. "This is nothing, in the grand scheme. He’s lucky.”

“Palpable spleen,” Ray murmured, as soon as he’d left. “Awesome. New band name. Totally.”

“What about Wheaten Fields?” Brad asked. “Hasser’s gonna cry.”

“That’s just my country project on the side. Palpable Spleen, that’ll be my hardcore band.” 

“You look like complete shit, you know that?” Brad told him. “Complete pathetic sweaty shit.”

“I’m so fucking _lucky_ , though,” Ray said, but most of the sarcasm had been wrung out of him along with every spare drop of fluid in his body, it seemed. He was asleep again by the time Brad came back from the latrines.

*

He slept and dozed all that day, a sad sodden pile of blankets over on the far corner of the yard that Brad tried not to look at. He looked like a corpse. Walt and Gabe stayed close, swapping off by apparent agreement, and Bryan came by once, maybe again when Brad wasn’t around, he wasn’t sure.

In the early evening Ray sat up suddenly, looking cranky and confused. “Sergeant Colbert, you got any more of that Chef Boy-ar-dee stashed around anywhere?” he called out, and the whole team laughed and punched on him a little and welcomed him back to the land of the living.

*

Brad got really good at spotting the signs of an incipient malaria attack over the next couple of weeks. Ray would be fine for a day or two, back to his annoying self, and then Brad would notice he hadn’t heard his voice in a while and look around to find him pale and subdued again. A few hours after that the shakes would set in. You could almost set your watch by it.

“Hey,” Brad said, stopping him in the yard, the third or fourth time it happened--he was starting to lose count. “Go lie down, you’re looking all whacked-out again.”

Ray made a face at him like he’d suddenly started speaking Hajji. “No I’m not.”

“Look at me a sec,” Brad said, then “Yeah. You really are. Again, Jesus. You’d better go see Bryan.”

“Oh, no fucking way,” Ray said. “I’m sick of getting blood drawn. Dude’s a vampire.”

“Quit having fucking malaria attacks, then. You want me to sit up with you tonight? Or Hasser?”

“Walt,” Ray said right away. “What? You asked. Walt does this great thing called not being a bastard to sick people who feel like crap.”

“You definitely need to go lie down, Corporal,” Brad told him. “ _After_ you check in with Doc.”

*

Later, Brad woke in the dark with that sudden too-alert feeling. Danger, airstrike, raid, he thought automatically, before he remembered. He sat up, heard rustling again, and reached for his light.

“Ow,” Ray complained, when Brad came over and shone the light over his face, making him squint painfully. “Jesus, turn that off, fuck.” 

Brad switched it off. “Where’s Hasser?” he whispered. “I thought he was on Person detail tonight.”

“S-sleeping,” Ray said through chattering teeth. “Told him I was fine. I thought I was. Fucking ch-chills, though. I’m so sick of this shit. You should shoot me like a dog.”

“I don’t shoot dogs,” Brad reminded him, and got down on his pallet with him. Sharing body heat. Basic first aid. He pressed his nose into Ray’s neck and blew warm breath down his skin. 

“I m-m-m-might puke on you again,” Ray warned, shivering against him.

“Whatever,” Brad said, too tired to banter. He gathered Ray in closer and fell back asleep for a while.

*

“Sorry,” Ray told him, still later, at about zero three hundred hours. “What I said before.”

“OK,” Brad said, because at this point he was used to Ray saying things that made no sense whatsoever at three in the morning. “No problem. You need water? You should probably drink some water.”

“Walt is really nice, though,” Ray went on. “Is he here?”

“No, he’s asleep. Shhh.”

“Just because he’s nicer to me doesn’t mean you’re a bastard, though. You just react to stuff different. You get all pissy ’cause you’re worried about me. It’s kind of sweet.”

“Ray. Shut the fuck up, I’m telling you. Quit talking and drink your water.”

“See? You love me.”

“Delirium is so amusing,” Brad said. “I’m going to get you on camera one of these nights and play it back for everyone to watch.”

He wouldn’t, actually. Most of it was a lot of fucked-up nonsense rambling, stuff that sounded like words but wasn’t, creepy speaking-in-tongues shit. The parts that were intelligible were worse. He’d sort of gotten the basic idea of what the nightmares had been like that made Ray quit taking the antimalarials in the first place. 

“I’m right here,” Brad said a lot. “Right here, Ray. See? One piece, fully operational. Now shut up before you wake the whole damn team.” 

*

“You’re starting to look worse than he does, bro,” Espera told him. “Better let someone else take a turn playing nursemaid next time. Hell, I’ll do it, I don’t care.”

“I’ve got it,” Brad said. “Thanks anyway.”

Espera gave him a look. 

“That’s messed up, Iceman,” he said. “Your boy should’ve been medevaced out of here a week ago. Two weeks ago.”

“Bryan says he’s fine. It’s just a mild--”

“Doc’s as crazy in the head as everyone else out here. He’s got a _tropical fucking disease_ , he should be in the hospital. Am I the only one left who knows how to call it like I see it?”

“We’re getting out of here any day now anyway. Don’t fuck with my team, Poke.” 

“For real?” Espera gave him another hard look, which Brad stared back down until he turned and walked away, shaking his head. “Shit. Messed-up, dog. Not good.” 

He was kind of right, of course, but there was still no fucking way. Ray was Recon just like the rest of them; he could take it. And they hadn’t come this far just to split up the team right before they shipped back out. Really, that was all this was about.

*

And then he got better. The next episode just...didn’t happen. 

Brad kept an eye on him, like he kept an eye on all his men. He’d lost some weight, but they all had; it was the end of a combat tour, so all of them were half-sick and exhausted and fucked-up. Ray seemed to be avoiding him now, and that was fine. It had been a weird time, a fever-dream of an encampment, that was all. A blip. Nothing to see here.

Until the afternoon he saw Hasser jump Ray in the yard with a tackle-ambush, and he ran over with his weapon out and nearly clocked Walt unconscious pulling him off. 

“Jesus Christ!” Ray said, scrabbling away out of range. “What the _fuck_ , Brad?”

“Sorry,” Brad said. “You OK, Walt? Sorry. Doc said, the thing with his spleen or whatever, it could bust, if-- Ray? Everything square?”

“ _I’m_ fine, you psycho,” Ray said. “You didn’t have to kill Walt!”

“Just messing around, sorry, Sergeant.” Walt looked wide-eyed and shaken. “I forgot.” 

Brad’s eyes scanned from one to the other of them quickly, damage check, but it was true, they were fine, and everyone in the fucking camp was staring at him now and wondering when exactly he’d gone off the rails.

There were no Humvees available to hide under, so he went for a walk around the perimeter. 

*

Ray tracked him down, near dusk, and started scuffing around the broken bricks piled up near where Brad was sitting on a supply crate glaring at the smoke from the trash fires.

“Don’t do that,” Brad told him. Ray quit kicking bricks and flopped down to sit on the cement floor next to his crate, legs stretched out and ankles crossed, pointedly not saying anything. 

It was Brad’s move, apparently. He waited it out for as long as he could, but it was no use; finally he turned to look at Ray, and Ray raised his eyebrows as high as they would go and tilted his chin at him: Well?

“Having any more of those fucked-up dreams?” Brad asked him, and that made Ray shut the hell up before he even got a word out; his wide-open face closed right down, and he looked away.

“If I do, I keep my mouth shut during them,” Ray said. “Far as I've heard.”

“Uh-huh. Well, that’s new, then. You said all kinds of shit when you were sick.” Brad wasn’t sure how much Ray remembered from the delirium nights; wasn't sure how much he remembered accurately himself. Enough to make Ray look sideways at Brad from beneath lowered brows. Enough to make Brad’s heart rate pick up a little speed.

“Man, tell me I didn't try to fucking kiss you,” Ray moaned, and they could have played it all off as a joke, right there--he was grinning now, and Brad laughed--but Ray was asking him something, too, he thought, if it was something Brad wanted to answer. And if not, they could pretend he was just fucking around again. Smart move.

Brad couldn’t really think about it, not here, not now. He couldn’t quite shrug it off, though, either. “Guys think about a lot of crazy shit after they’ve been in action sometimes,” he said finally. “It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just intense out here, people get...”

“Sure, fine, I get it." Ray cut him off. It was starting to get dark now, but the halogen perimeter lights came on with a snap and a sudden loud buzz, illuminating their faces and making Ray squint. He looked tense and shut-down again. “Crazy post-combat shit. Right. Check. Are we through here, then, Sergeant?”

“You’re the one who came and found me,” Brad pointed out.

“Yeah, and you’re the one who just almost murdered a guy to get him off me. Crazy shit. Yep.” Ray started to get up and leave.

Brad stopped him, catching him around the wrist without even thinking about it. “Look,” he said, and then got a little lost. Ray’s wrist looked and felt perfectly right in his hand--it was as familiar to Brad as his own, but more than that, it had the exact boniness and musculature and skin texture that a wrist should have, ideally, in Brad’s opinion. Everything down to the positioning of the tan line, and Ray just...stood there, waiting and angry, accepting the contact without question. 

“You’re _mine_ ,” Brad said quietly to Ray’s wrist, and then made himself look up, directly into his eyes, watching his expression shift from anger to confusion. “You just are. I don’t even know what I mean by that. We can talk about it when we’ve been stateside again for a while, if either of us still wants to by then. For now...that’s all I’ve got.” He released his grasp and stood up, still keeping eye contact, looking down at Ray to see what he’d have to say about that.

“I’m not _yours_ , you asshole,” Ray said, but he was grinning again.

“Yeah, you sort of are, though,” Brad told him. “Conversation over, Corporal, and I will deny all recollection of it in a court of law.” He began to walk away.

“Stateside," Ray called out to him, still grinning. "Promise?"

“I officially have no idea what you’re referring to,” Brad called back, and kept going, trying to ignore the stupid surge of (undeserved, unwarranted) gladness that lightened his stride. They’d be entirely different people again, stateside. It probably really _was_ just crazy post-combat shit.

But it didn't fade, no matter how much Brad tried to talk himself out of it: a fierce tendril of hope in a hopeless land.

**Author's Note:**

> This story took place in my head at the intersection of reading Evan Wright’s _Generation Kill_ , in which he says there were a number of malaria cases at Ad Diwaniyah caused by the Marines sleeping outside in a mosquito-infested camp, and Ann Patchett’s _State of Wonder_ , in which a character throws away her antimalarial pills because they give her nightmares. The rest is all my own fault.


End file.
